


Isolation Isn't Always The Answer

by definitely_not_trash



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen, I hope you enjoy it!, Kinda fluffy but at the same time sad, Plot Twist, This is random is all I can say, all characters belong to me, suicide warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/definitely_not_trash/pseuds/definitely_not_trash
Summary: Michael is a seemingly normal guy, living in about the late 19th century with his 'adopted son,' Jackson.





	Isolation Isn't Always The Answer

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a simple story I came up with a little while ago, I hope you enjoy it!

_ ‘One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten…’ _

Jackson’s thoughts trailed off as his brain drowns out the sound of the clock ticking from the other room, his mind blanking as he stares at the pale wall, the gentle blue colour seeming to embed itself into his vision until it was the only thing he could see. The sound of a door slamming shut is enough to snap him out of his trance-like state, his head instinctively turning towards the direction of the sound. 

He stands up slowly from his spot on the couch. The room was small, clad with faded blue wallpaper that had begun to peel, a lonely oak coffee table sat in the middle of the room. He stared at the doorway, brushing a lock of his ginger hair out of his face.

“I’m home!” He heard the voice call out. Jackson recognises the voice as the man who lived here. The man who took care of him when he wasn’t working.   
Jackson traced his brain for the man’s name. He knows the man has told him many times before, but it always tended to slip from his mind. 

_ ‘What is it?’ _ he thinks. then, suddenly it pops back into his brain,  _ ‘Michael!’ _

He perks up as Michael walked into the room,

“There you are! I see you took your medication today, good job!”  Michael gives him a smile, gently ruffling his hair. Jackson like it when Michael was proud of him, it made him happy.   He nods a bit, moving to sit back down where he had previously been seated.

“So how was your day? Got my note alright?” Michael asked as he sat down next to Jackson. Michael wasn’t even sure if Jackson could read at all, but he liked to think he could, he seemed to understand his brief notes, so he just assumed he could. Jackson gave a little smile, glancing down at his hands before giving a thumbs up in response to the question.

“Aw, that’s good! Sorry I was late, had to say late at work to help a coworker. Have you eaten yet?” 

Jackson shakes his head in response to Michael’s question.

“Alright, I’ll get supper going right now then,” Michael stands up to go out to the kitchen when he stops, “Oh! I almost forgot! I got you a small sketchpad so you can draw while I’m away, I’ll go get it for you, one moment!” Michael quickly walked out of the room to get the sketchpad. He returns not a minute later, a pad of paper and a pen in hand.

“Here,” he hands them to the other boy, “you can do some drawing while I get supper ready,” Michael walks out of the room, going back into the kitchen to start on supper.

Jackson opens the sketchpad, taking in the smooth, fresh look of the clean, almost blindingly white paper. He runs his fingers along the smooth surface, taking in the feeling of it on his skin. He takes the pen into his hand, getting a feel for it as he sets the book down on the table, pressing the pen to the paper as he drew some lines, watching the ink dry quickly on the white surface, creating a contrasting black shine against the blank sheet. He lets out a small giggle, making a few more marks along the paper as he observes as the lines go from being bright, shiny black, to more matte as the ink soaks into the paper. 

_ ‘Heh…Pretty,’ _ he thinks, setting the pen down onto the table as he flips the page to a fresh one so he could actually do some sort of art.

He sets the book down, his small fingers grasping the pen, repositioning themselves to sit along the wooden ridges carved into the handle. His eyes wander the room, searching, scanning for something to draw. A bird that had flown down to sit in the windowsill of the large window in the living room catches his eyes; the brilliant yellow of its feathers seemed to enrapture the boy, and he promptly begins to copy its form. His hand follows the flowing curves of its small, delicate body and feathers. His hand drags the pen along the paper with ease, completing the drawing of the bird just as it seemed to fly away. He giggles again, looking down at the drawing he created. It wasn’t very good, but it could definitely be recognised as a bird, which seemed to be enough to satisfy him as he rests the pen down once more, slipping off the couch to show Michael what he had created. 

He held the book in his arms, wandering out of the room to find where the other man had disappeared to. He went down the grim hallway, lit only by the light coming through the windows from the rooms leading off to the sides. Jackson poked his head into each of the rooms until he found where Michael had gone to. 

He gently pushed the old wooden door open, the hinges groaning under its weight as it slowly swung open. Michael physically jumps at the noise, whipping around to look to the doorway.

“Oh! You startled me! What do you need dear?” he said calmly, smiling softly as he set his pen down on the desk he was sitting at. Jackson walked over to him, setting the sketchpad onto a vacant space to show Michael his drawing.

“Aw, good job! It looks gorgeous,” he smiled, shifting and gently patting Jackson's shoulder as he turned to hand him the book back.

“Supper will be done in a little bit, have some fun and we’ll go over some things after, alright?” Michael turned back to his writing, taking the small nod the boy gave him as an answer to his question. 

Jackson left the room, sketchpad in hand as he wanders back down through the hallway and into the room he was given as his own. After tossing the sketchpad onto his desk he opens the curtains, letting the light in to illuminate the room before sitting down on his bed. 

Lying down he stares at the ceiling, the white paint on the ceiling seeming to fill his vision, becoming the only thing he could focus on. His perception of time seemed to drag each second out as if it were an eternity.

He closed his eyes, relishing in the dark his eyelids provided against the light from the window. About 20 minutes later Michael called out for him to come to supper, but Jackson didn’t seem to notice, too lost in his own thoughts as he continued to lie flat on his back, eyes remaining shut. Michael called out again, his voice a bit louder.

“Jackson! Supper is ready!” Jackson remained where he was, only moving to sit up now, his eyes remaining closed. He knew he was awake; he just didn’t have the willpower to force his tired eyes to open. He sits on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs a bit over the side. 

“Jackson!” Michael started to walk down the hallway, wondering why the boy hadn’t come out yet. Michael raps on the door, waiting a moment before opening it, 

“Jackson what are you-o,h, are you alright?” he tilts his head a bit, slowly walking over to where the other man was sitting, gently resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Immediately upon contact with him Jackson jumped, his eyes flying open as he was ripped from his peaceful headspace. He turned to look at Michael, his heart beating aggressively against his ribcage, his breathing rasped and heavy.

“Oh, no...did I startle you? I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you, darling. Supper is finished. You come out when you’re ready, alright?” and with that Michael stands up, slipping out of the room and closing the heavy door quietly to return to the small dining room across from the kitchen. Michael sits down, starting to eat. He didn’t expect to see Jackson after what had happened, and instead just put his plate away, storing the food for later, whenever Jackson felt like eating it. 

Eventually, Jackson calmed himself down, lying down on his back once again. Seconds dragged into minutes, which slowly pulled into hours until the boy found himself standing up. 

It was now later in the night; the sky had turned a dark black, leaving only the imagination to see what was outside the safety of their home. Jackson looks round the room, finding his way to the small desk, his nimble fingers grasping the flint and steel striker as he lifted it off the table. He struck the sparks onto the candle resting in the  chamberstick, the flame soon catching and letting off a warm glow; just bright enough to illuminate the close area round him.

He lifts the chamberstick by the small metal handle curving over the side, using it as a light to make his way out of the bedroom, slowly making his way down the hallway and back out into the living room. He could see the dull flicker of the fire from the living room, as he enters the room he sets his chamberstick down onto a side table. Jackson wandered over to sit next to the fire, warming his hands with the dry heat the cracking flames let off. 

He crosses his legs, letting his eyes close as he just enjoyed the comforting warmth the fire enveloped him in. His ears caught the sound of gentle footsteps on the floorboard, followed by the grate of a door hinges. More footsteps follow this soon after, getting closer to him as he turned, eyes opening to see what it was. 

“There you are! Feeling any better? I’m really sorry about earlier darling, I wasn’t trying to frighten you,” Michael whispers, slowly making his way over to sit next to the other boy, his face lit by the flickering flames of the fire. Jackson nods in response, giving Michael a small smile, brushing his dishevelled locks out of his face. 

“That’s good, it really pains me to see you upset” he gently rests his hand upon the smaller boys shoulder.

“You should get some rest; it’s quarter to midnight. Come on, I’ll take you back to bed,” he gently pulled Jackson to his feet, grabbing the chamberstick from the side table. He leads the boy back to his room, setting the chamberstick on the bedside table as he tucked him in. 

“There there. Now you go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” he blew the flame out, casting the room into darkness as he closes the door behind him, whispering out softly, “goodnight,” before returning to his study. 

Michael sits himself down in the chair behind his  escritoire, picking his pen back up as he began to continue his paperwork. Letter after letter, paper after paper. The pile seemed endless as he signed off prescriptions, replied to letters, etc.  Michael ran his fingers through his dark black hair as he finally signed off the last of the paperwork, setting all the letters into a deep drawer so they wouldn’t get lost. 

“Finally, that seemed to go on forever,” he sighed out, putting his pen away in its place before heading off to change into his night clothes. He blew out the candle beside his bed, letting his tired eyes close as he drifted off to sleep.

 

Jackson’s dreams were filled with horrors, demonic creations from his mind sent out to tear his mental stability apart shred after shred. They haunted him,  _ plagued  _ him, like a bad flesh wound that wouldn’t heal. He hated these horrid nights, the feeling of being entirely consumed by darkness, the feeling of such fear and loneliness…

Jackson woke with a scream, a sheen of sweat across his entire body as he breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down. Michael ran into the room upon hearing the commotion, pushing the door open as the candlelight fills the room.

“Jackson! Jackson are you alright?!” Michael runs to his bedside, resting his hands on the other males shoulders as he tried to comfort him.

“Hey! Hey! It's okay! You’re okay...I’m here...it’s alright,” he whispers, gently rubbing his shoulders, “It was just a dream, honey...It’ll be okay,” Michael bites his lip, continuing to try and calm him down. 

Jackson’s breathing started to mellow out, going from quick, sharp breaths, to a slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

“There there…It’s alright,” Michael smiles softly. Jackson slowly laid back down on his back, his whole body still shaking slightly as he closed his eyes.

“Are you going to be alright now?” Michael asked softly, shifting to stand now, “I have to go to work soon…” 

Jackson weakly nodded in response, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Alright, see you later, darling,” and with that Michael left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

 

Jackson didn’t seem him again after that. It had been at least a day since he left, and Jackson was starting to get worried. Michael had been gone for long periods of time before, but never this long without checking up on him. He felt alone, isolated from the rest of the world. He could leave, but Michael told him he shouldn’t, that he could get hurt. He didn’t want to upset Michael, so he sat by the fire instead, staring into the golden flames as they lapped hungrily at the wood, enveloping the logs in a blisteringly hot inferno of flame. He thought about putting his hand in the flame, then thought against it. 

Shifting away from the blaze to stand up, returning to his room to grab the pen and sketchbook from where he had tossed it the previous night. He took them back by the fire, sitting down and opening it to flip to where he had left off. his eyes skimming over the drawing of the bird he had done. He tore the page out and tossed it onto the fire, folding the book to be open to a fresh page. Setting it down on the floor he grabs the pen, starting to just scribble things down on the paper, random words, random letters, anything that came into his mind. He looks around the room, his eyes searching for anything that might inspire him. He found nothing of interest and returned his gaze to the paper, which now had the dried scribbles littered across its smooth surface. 

He had only just noticed his breathing had begun to get heavier, each breath seeming to weigh a hundred pounds. He started to feel more alone, more isolated. As if he were sectioned off from the rest of the world. He felt like Michael may never return, and that thought scared him. He looked around the room again, the wallpaper seeming to be peeling off right before his eyes. He felt trapped, stuck in a hole he couldn’t get out of. The walls seemed to crumble around him, his whole body began to shake again as he held his head in his hands. It was happening again, he knew it. 

He squeezes his eyes closed, hoping it would all just go away. As if he thought hard enough he could banish the evil thoughts within him. He pulled himself to his feet, curling his fingers around his head as he tried to block out the rather loud banging noise. Almost as if someone were hitting a bell that only screamed in response to being struck. He made his way into the kitchen, shaking and gasping for breath as he continued to try and evade the sounds, the crumbling of the world around him. 

Jackson pulls a knife out of the block, using it in defence against, well, nothing really. 

He lets out a shriek, breathing harder now, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

“N-no no no no no no NO!” he screamed out, over and over, “I C-N-CAN’T DO THI-THIS ANYM-ANYMORE!” He screeched at the top of his lungs, glancing down at the knife in his hand.

“No no no no no you can’t no no no no no no no no,” he started twitching frantically, shaking harshly as he almost sobbed out, “NO! YO-YOU HAVE-HAVE TO!”

“Stop this! Don’t have to do anything!” He started to panic more,

“YES! No! Yes! AGH!” In a frantic panic, he impaled the knife into the middle of his chest, sobbing and screaming out, 

“NO NO STOP THIS!” he gasped in a seeming response to himself. “C-can’t to-too late…” he crumpled to his knees, blood oozing out around the blade as he ripped it out of himself, struggling to breathe properly.

“Too late…” he gasped his final breath before blacking out.

 

Michael returned a few days later, a nasty stench filling his nose as he walked in.

“Dear lord, what is that smell? Jackson! I’m home,” he called out, putting his coat in the closet and slipping his shoes off.

“Sorry I was gone for a while, it got really busy and they needed 24-hour staff to handle a...Situation,” he walked into the living room, seeing the fire had died down to nothing but a few glowing embers. He also took note of the book and pen by the fireplace as he made his way into the kitchen.

As soon as he entered the room, the smell got almost ten times worse. He moved around the island, stopping in sudden shock as he laid his eyes on the already decomposing corpse of Jackson.

“O-oh my god!” he screamed, backing up now, soon tripping over his own feet and falling back, smashing his head off the wall, immediately blacking out.

Michael didn’t show up for work the next day. In fact, he didn’t show up at all, for the next week or two. His co-workers began to get worried, questioning about why he had disappeared.

One of his close friends from work had come to investigate, finding the door to his home unlocked, which was surprising considering Michael was always very cautious about  _ everything _ . 

“Hello? Michael? Are you home?” The friend made their way into the home, nothing seeming out of the ordinary other than the dead mouse on the ground. It had already begun decomposing, giving off a vile stench. 

“Gross,” they mumbled, “Michael?!” they slowly walked through the home, ending up in the living room.

There wasn’t even a trace of a recent fire, the pit full of ashes. They also noticed the lack of anything next to the fire, knowing that Michael rather enjoyed writing beside the fireplace. 

“Something isn’t right here…Michael? Are you even home?” they frowned curiously,  _ ‘No, he has to be home. He’d never leave with his door unlocked. But the fire? It’s the middle of winter, much too cold to be inside without a fire going…’ _ they thought to themself, slowing walking into the kitchen. 

There was blood on the floor, a few droplets scattered to the wall. It was old, dried and flaking off as they walk into the room.

“What happened here? Michael?! Are you alright?!” the walked down the hallway, poking their head into each of the rooms as the made their way down, soon reaching the last room.

_ ‘Okay, he has to be in here. Where else would he be?’ _ the thought, soon pushing the door open.

The first thing they noticed was that it also smelled like something had died in this room, but considering the previous mouse they didn’t think too much of it. The second thing they noticed was Michael, slumped over his desk. 

“There you are! Michael are you alright?” they asked,  _ ‘He must have fallen asleep writing, but why hasn’t he been showing up to work?’ _

They step closer, starting to notice now that, Michael … he wasn’t breathing, in fact; he was unnaturally still. They put their hand on his shoulder, noticing how his skin was ice cold.

“Michael are you-” they stepped to the side, a gasp being drawn from their lips as they now noticed his entire front was caked in blood. From his face to his ankles, dried crimson glimmered in the pale light from the window, the previous bright shades now turned dark reds and browns.

“O-oh god-Michael! M-Michael he’s dead! H-He’s-” 

A few days passed after the discovery of Michaels body, and the authorities began to question any relatives or friends of his.

“Did Michael show any signs or inclinations of taking his own life?”

“N-no...not that I know of. He lived alone, but he seemed quite happy. We would talk after work sometimes, meet up at his place talk of any new novels we’ve read... He didn’t show any real signs of depression or mania...I-I just don’t understand…”

“Did he have any significant other?”

“No-well, he talked a reasonable amount about someone of the name ‘Jackson,’ but I’ve never seen this person before,”

“Alright,” he jots her words down on a slip of paper, “How long have you known Michael for?”

“About 5 years, I met him at work,”

“We understand that Michael worked with you at the old sanitorium, do you perhaps think his occupation had any effect on his actions or state of mind?”

“Perhaps, but it’s unlikely. From what he’s told me, he liked and enjoyed his job a fair deal,” 

“Hm, alright. Thank you for this information, we will inform you if anything else is found,”

“Thank you…I hope you figure out his reasoning behind this tragedy…” 

“We will try our best, that is all we can do until we get more information. Once again, thank you for your contribution..." 

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my story! I really hope you enjoyed it and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Thanks a lot! :)


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